


The Pumpkin's Gift

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Character Study, Donald visits an old friend, Fluff and Angst, Gen, The kids learn Donald was about that life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: On Mischief Night Donald visits a friend, but forgets the toll paid when one walks hand in hand with the Master of Fright. (He also steals candy apples, and never complains.)





	The Pumpkin's Gift

Donald slipped out the back, cursing the motion detectors at the end of the hall. A squeaky beep echoed in the mansion, but no one stirred, no one peeked out of their bedroom, curious to see what phantom menace had disturbed their sleep.

He breathed in relief. He closed the front door. Tiptoed down the steps. Winced when the engine roared to life. He was out of sight, out of mind, or that’s what he hoped. Driving safely at a reasonable speed, he accepted what he was doing was not safe, unwise, foolish. 

The clear night made for a short drive. He slowed near the city limits where the forest was at its thickest. He parked his car and grabbed the searchlight waiting on the passenger’s seat. _Yes,_ he thought. _Going into the woods in the middle of the night without notifying any of my family and friends was a sensible plan,_ the search light’s brightness hurt his eyes. He went ahead, training his senses to focus on the wide environment they were about to descend into.

Prickly branches, wrinkled leaves, and a pale, yellow moon watched his every move. He gripped the search light tightly. He should’ve came an hour earlier, but the boys insisted on Halloween preparation, much later than usual due to their return being later than originally scheduled. He was fortunate. Yellow moonlight weakened the surrounding darkness, clearing his trail. He remembered it from last year. Unpredictable, curved, the path was consistent in its loops and twists, sending him in a fury of directions. He went around a single three times, another four times. He stepped into the running creak, gripping a stray branch to drag himself out.

He was annoyed. He was frustrated. He felt his temper rising to the base of his skull, ready to hurl expletives in the presence of silent observers. The trees had better reasons to judge humanity. His obscene curses and swears did nothing to or for them. Weathered glares sighed in the passing wind. He wondered if this was their way of mocking him, which seemed to be an annual feature of his visit.

The hour was lost to him by time he found the woods’ center. The moon reached its highest speak within the sky’s depths, and the woods grew wider, denser. The trees’ glares had hardened; their girths were wider than Grandma Duck’s pumpkin patch. He was swallowed whole, though he'd entered knowingly. Donald welcomed the chill that predictably climbed up his spine. He approached the trees planted in a circular rope, as if protecting something though nothing existed in their inner center. What they protected didn’t concern Donald.

He raised his search light. Artwork was carved on their bumpy surfaces. He saw an egg painted brightly in yellows, blues, and pinks. Donald continued to walk around the ring, reading the wordless stories the trees told. Another depicted an obese man whose stomach prolapsed over his black belt. His red robes and pants, line in white fluff, instantly caught Donald’s attention. He toted an oversized bag, distributing them to children, small and tall. Others followed. A short man dressed in green, dancing around a cauldron of gold. A turkey running from a sharpened ax. A hefty cherub pointed his arrow at a pair of star crossed lovers. Donald frowned. As animated these murals were, none of them were what he searched for.

He continued to walk. He might’ve forgotten where his tree was; that didn’t mean he was going to give up. The night was long, and they were waiting for him. He hurried around the ring until a familiar orange glow sneered gleefully ahead. He slowed, raising his search light, and sighed. Identical to its contemporaries its wide girth displayed a portrait carved onto the tree’s tender hide. Hollow gold draped a pumpkins eyes and illuminated its gnarled grin. Children paraded around its round body, grasping bags filled with treats and reaching for more that fell into their grasps.

He spotted  the doorknob. Small, circular, made of pure, unblemished gold. Donald swallowed. He turned the door knob slowly, mentally preparing him for what was to come, but the creatures waiting on the other side had grown impatient. The door suddenly swung open. A force from behind, or maybe his own clumsiness, pushed him forward. He spread his hands out, clenching instinctively, but there was nothing to clasp. He fell. His scream leaped into his throat, sticking there as he descended.

He was weightless. A feather, or possibly a cloud, would envy him. His weightlessness carried him down, deep down, pass the tree’s hollow innards. They jeered and cackled. Shadows slithered along the walls, furry tails clanging on bark. Donald swallowed. He opened his mouth to scream, and a sharp whistle flew free instead. He stayed silent, tumbling, rolling, doing backflips down his descent. He ignored the shadows and their moon white stares, blinking mischievously at him. He listened to the clamoring sound beneath him growing stronger and hungrier the longer he fell.

He strained to hear. Clamoring on top of each others, words were difficult to discern. _“This is…,”_ entered a snarl, _“this is…,”_ a wolf’s howl worshipped the moon. Donald knew this song. Even as he fell, his lips moved to fill in empty gaps. He murmured silently, as if in a dream, “Pumpkins scream in the dead of night.”

The tree jolted. Its inner skin vibrated in amusement. Donald started, trying to roll back but unable to do so. He glanced down and gulped. There was darkness. Absolute darkness. Inky black darkness ready to swallow him up, and his muscles tensed, desperately preparing for what was to come. He rolled into a ball, pushing his knees underneath his beak, closing his eyes, and bracing for impact.

He landed face forward in a pile of black leaves. He felt dirt and withered grass bury through his lips. He slid deep, hard, face submerged in dirt, and he stayed there for several moments with his tail-feathers poking upright. He pushed free, reemerging wearing a small cap of dirt on his crown. He fell backwards, spitting dirt and leaves and other squirming things he didn’t want to think about out.

After wiping the dirt from his eyes and sneezing it from his nostrils, Donald glanced up.

“Why hello, old friend.” A sneer, a grin, something impossibly obscene, something impossibly jovial greeted him, “Temporarily oppose your anger. Our lovely tree dropped you three feet pumpkin patch adjacent this year.”

Blinking dirt crusts off his eyelids, Donald noticed the number of pumpkins ahead. Small, large, curled, twisted. Some were normal; others were not. His companion sat on the largest, widest, orangest pumpkin in the patch. One slender, ridiculously long leg crossed over its twin. An unblemished finger made of bone ivory tapped his cheek. Donald didn’t flinch.

“You know? You’d make for a great Halloween decoration,” standing, he marched to the pumpkin patch, climbing over the fence. His uneasiness waned. His troubled stomach settled, “And you should really invest in an escalator,” he pointed to where the tree, its door closed, bristled quietly behind them.

The skeleton’s boorish laughed warmed Donald. “I apologize, dear friend.” He slapped his knee and danced on clouds, “But our haunted oak has no intentions of changing. Its work is done well.”

He landed softly on black leaves. His long back bent low, and Donald stared at his skeletal hand.

“Could find a better cushion then,” he snapped. But this snap lacked his usual spitfire. The angry heat in his words had cooled, and he grinned, gripping his hand, “Alright, alright, show me what you’ve got, Jack.”

* * *

Halloween Town thrived in its frozen stasis; eternally unchanged. All the horrific festivities Donald encountered the previous year merrily scratched his feathers and spine, slithering off in dirt and weeds. Walking at Jack's side, Donald observed wretched holiday decorations strung across from lamppost to lamppost. He felt safest nearest friend, who towered above the town's population; _all except for one_ , a snide voice reminded him, _one we were fortunate to defeat._

Their walked in good cheer, in humble silence. Donald waved at odd shaped, abnormally normal children whose grotesque faces didn't cause for frown or scream. He shouted proudly, "You little snot nosed beasts.” He waved his fist for good measure.

Giggling down the street, their bags filled with treats disappeared around a corner. Satisfaction echoed in the wind, “Thanks, Mr. Duck!” He imagined sharpened canines, yellowed with blood, winked at the bag's corners. He was positive he hadn't imagined it.

“So, where are we going?”

“Ah!” Jack snapped his fingers, “Sally has taken the children for the Tree Fall decoration.” He read Donald’s quizzical expression and chuckled, “Oh my, I’ll admit there have been some changes! Do you remember the Sandy Klaws incident?”

“Yeah.” Vaguely, he hadn’t been around for that. “You told me something about it. You kidnapped Santa Claus,” which didn’t sound as terrible as it sounded.

Jack sighed, “We did.” He glanced at Donald, “He was very understanding, circumstances considered, and he visited not too long ago.”

“Did he?”

He hummed, “That he did! He was overjoyed to see the children’s xylophone rehearsal. They’ll be performing tomorrow night for the world to hear.” An empty eye socket fell on Donald, “And what of you? You always come the day the day before Halloween. Sandy Klaws early arrival is understandable; his schedule is renewed the second school starts again. Your boys aren’t so small anymore are they?”

“No.” Donald looked, “They aren’t.” And hadn’t been for some time, he wanted to add. “They’re busy with my uncle these days,” Donald said.

“Oh?” Jack’s sockets grew wide, “Your estranged uncle?”

Donald nodded, “Um...yeah.” He told him what happened to his boat. He loved that boat. He told him about their new residence, the transfer from public school to homeschool, and as they walked, he felt a heavy weight lift off his shoulders. It was the first time Donald expressed the required measures for living with Scrooge McDuck.

“So, they _do_ know what happened to Della?” Jack asked softly, “My, my, my, and the De Spell witch, what became of her?”

“We don’t know.” Donald shrugged, “She’ll be back. They always come back, but...Lena,” if it were possible his beak would’ve twisted in disgust, “Webby’s doing okay for the most part, but it’s been difficult.”

“Ah, grief assaults our hearts miserably.” He asked, “And she was born of shadow?”

“Yeah.”

“And you say she was able to project a semi-corporal form in Webbigail’s defense?”

“Yeah.”

He contemplated what to say. A moment passed, then another. They made a right at the corner, towards the town’s center where its residents flocked cheerfully. Their festive cheer made little difference to Donald. Jack mused silently; had he possessed hair and skin, the visual of his brows needling downward in V shape would threaten less. His eager steps slowed. His long arms folded behind his slightly hunched back.

“I see. I’ll ask around, see what can be done,” dark swirls galloped in the corners of his empty sockets, “he’d like to know what she’s done after all this time. I suspect he’d be disappointed.”

“Who?”

Soberness wrinkled under a curious blink. His lips curved, revealing his ghostly, crescent smile lying beneath, “Have no fear, Donald, or fear, yes, fear for Samhain is coming!”

Donald sighed. “Where’s your dad?” He’d accept the subject change, and searched for the familiar pumpkin headed child, “I didn’t see him at the pumpkin patch.”

“Ah, Dad?” Jack chortled, “He’s already out and about ensuring this year’s trick or treaters are prepared to give their offering.”

“I thought you didn’t do that anymore.” He said, “I thought _he_ didn’t do that anymore.”

“He doesn’t!” Jack paused, waving his hands reassuringly, “You must believe when I say we’ve conversed extensively on the issue. ‘Dad you can’t torture and or kill unbelievers. Times have changed, and we must change with it.’”

“He understands this means no violence against anyone not celebrating Halloween?”

"Of course." Jack said. "Probably." He frowned. "Maybe." He looked away, and muttered, “We’ll review procedure tomorrow morning.”

“Last year he put thirty people in the hospital.”

Instantly resuming his character, Jack spun with wide eyes. "In his defense, those innocent trick or treaters were denied their rightful treats," he straightened his suit stiffly, and moved forward, worry pinching the rough bone above his eyes. Had he been a man, flesh and all, Donald suspected his cheeks would've reddened in embarrassment. “And besides,” Jack barreled a cough in to his hand, “his past actions have marred our history. It’s difficult to alter an old person’s ways, especially when they’ve suffered no consequence after so many years.”

“You mean centuries," Donald joked.

Jack grinned, “Yes, centuries.”

Visits concluded at Jack’s home. He’d embrace Sally, who always gave him a warm, cold kiss on the forehead. Their five children - no longer children, far older than Donald’s boys, were more than ready to tackle him in comfortable affection; the youngest, despite their maturity, barely contained their enthusiasm to demonstrate their latest terrifying invention. Her cackles always seemed to intermingle with Donald’s screams. This was their normal; their hideously, lovable normal, and as they crossed further from where Jack’s home was, the more he suspected different intentions lied afoot.

The residents wandering Town Square welcomed them with tricks and treats. A cookie snapped at his fingers, drawing a thin sliver of blood. Another flew off with bat wings, screeching into the night. He noticed the corn on the cob stand; squinting at the mildly familiar shapes, he realized healthy yellow was covered in black ooze.

“Tar pit smothering.” Jack explained, “A delicacy, would you like one?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? They’ll be sold out soon.”

“No.”

“Donald, please.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll take a candy apple.”

Jack bellowed brightly, gripping Donald’s hand in an unquestionably tight grip. He ushered them to the candy apple stand. He glared at the delicacies worriedly. They apples were the darkest shade of red Donald had ever seen; a thick, shiny coat of caramel hardened around it.

“I will have this one.” Jack bit into it happily. Clear juice fell down the sides of his mouth. He saw Donald’s concern, “Difficult to choose?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, here. I’ll help.” He picked the darkest, largest apple of the bunch. Far to the left, behind three others, “Now, now, let's not dawdle. The night may be young, but dawn prepares with every step.”

Donald sniffed. “I won’t go into a coma?” He sniffed again, frown deepened. “I mean, like Snow White? This isn’t enchanted is it?”

“I thought you saved Snow White.”

“We did save Snow White.” They crossed the street, falling into step on the main road where a black iron gate waited in the distance. “But I wasn’t the one smooching her back to life.” Sighing, he gave into temptation and sunk his teeth in.

He jaws went to work. Teeth grinded sweetly hardened apple into mush sauce; using his tongue, Donald teased it around. He didn’t taste any poison. Would he if there was any? Sharp caramel bits chewed into dust. He swallowed the bite, feeling its slink at the back his throat, down his throat.

Jack beamed. “Delicious isn’t it?”

“Yeah?”

“Adelaide lives in a swamp down south.”

“South?”

“Yes, a famous rougarou recipe her grandmama taught her.”

“As long as it isn’t poisoned, or causes sickness or death.” He ate the apple greedily. A gluttonous smack accompanied each bite.

“It will not.” Jack promised. A mournful groan creaked as the gate opened, “I told Sally we will take a detour on our way home. She understands time is of the essence. We’ll visit on our way back to the tree, now,” he bowed, straightening his arm in a grand display, “my dear fellow.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Donald said. He squinted around their new environment, and an instantaneous rush of trepidation splashed down to his feet. “Is this the cemetery,” he turned.

Jack grinned, “Now, now, fear is not becoming of the great Donald Duck, and you never showed fear in the past, certainly when fear was most anticipated.”

He was right. Donald didn’t want to say it aloud. “It was a long time ago,” he pressed lightly. “Why’d you bring me here,” he asked.

Jack’s long strides took him far ahead, prompting Donald to follow. “I cannot say with certainty, Donald. I know it is not the anniversary. It was summer time when you arrived.” Their feet crunched on top of withered grass; the gentlest traces of snow flaked on its browned ends. He wanted to ask where Jack was leading them, but he soon realized when the moon’s glare brightened upon their skin, drawing the envy of the sun.

“I like to sit here and think.” Jack crouched on the edge of the curved tipped hill, “It is where I confessed my love for Sally, where our courtship began. It is where I muse over the past, present, and future.”

Donald sat silently beside him. He stared at the moon; a yellow, harvest moon, not so unlike the moon he left behind. He breathed and was surprised to see his breath evaporate in front him.

“It’s close.” He gestured to their lunar companion. “She smiles.”

Teeth shinier than ivory, brighter than stars gleamed. Craters on its pale yellow skin watched them, and traced their shapes in the shadows of their pupils. Fear should’ve tackled him. He would’ve scrambled on his back, trying his hardest to run away.But Donald was content. He blamed exhaustion or familiarity, whichever one was easiest to accept, and sat beside Jack. Nostalgia filled the holes as they spoke quietly of their lives, past and present. Mostly present. The past continued to wound and fester, and there was no need to discuss what they already experienced.

“Goofy came last week.” Jack said, “He apologized for the early arrival, but he has prior engagements.”

“He does?”

“He is involved with his town’s Halloween party.”

“He is?”

“He is.” Jack grinned proudly, “He showed me his costume. I gave it to Sally for a few adjustments. It needs to be really scary if he plans to win the Spoonerville Halloween Costume Contest. Her alterations appeared to please him.”

“It’s Goofy.” Donald chuckled faintly, “He’s always satisfied, well, most of the time. He’s an easily satisfied guy.” As the sentence strung itself thing between them, Donald questioned his claim. He rested his beak on his knees. Phone calls and text messages kept communication open. He knew he lived. Goofy knew he lived, and knew where he lived. He let the sentence sit in there. He let it simmer. He’d be lying if he said this was acceptable in terms of friendship.

Goofy was goofy. This was what Donald knew. Goofy never changed. Goofy never moved; except for the brief period of time after his wife’s death. He'd moved then, though it hadn’t started that way. _What if_? Donald swallowed. What if he had changed, unbeknownst to Donald. He hadn’t seen him in years. At least six, he estimated. The last time they’d seen each other was for Max’s high school graduation.

“Goofy is an understanding man. The most compassionate, empathetic man I have ever met.” Jack wrapped an arm around his shoulder, gently tugging him towards his bony rib cage, “You may have hurt him. You may have spared him. He understands. Life plays some of the cruelest tricks on us, and all we can do is make do with its offerings."

Donald breathed. “And Sora?” He grimaced at the frail quiver in his voice. Almost afraid, almost relieved. He hadn’t spoken the name in years, much longer than he preferred.

Jack barked an excited laugh, shaking him gently in his strong boned grip. “He comes the day after Halloween. Sometimes it is closer to Christmas, the silly boy.” Merriment clung to his tone; a remnant of Sora’s influence.

Donald shook his head, “I didn’t expect him to be a kid. He was what? Fifteen when we last saw each other?” Closer to fifteen than sixteen; not quite a child, not yet an adult. Donald sighed. He hadn’t realized he’d left more than Scrooge behind when Della disappeared.

“He’s a young man. He travels the world from what he tells me. Travels to worlds with Riku and Kairi,” Jack patted his back comfortingly, sensing his troubled realizations. “They’re very happy together, Donald.”

He sniffed, wiping his eyes. “I’m glad. He deserves it.” He’d dealt with more than Donald did at that age. At times he envied his bubbly composure; never faltering, never buckling under pressure. His smile marveled at every creature and friend they made; there were moments Donald suspected it was smile that saved their hearts, not the purge of darkness from his blade..

“And what of you?”

“What of me?”

“You said you were living with your uncle again, you and your boys. They know the truth, do they not?”

“Yes, they do.” Donald frowned, “Scrooge told them. We moved back in. Things are settled, I think. A lot has changed in the past few months, but everyone’s adjusting in their own way.”

“And are you adjusting?” He rolled his other hand, “Are you adjusting in your way?”

“I…,” he closed his beak. His next words were chosen carefully, slowly. “I am. I’m still in the houseboat, but I spend ore time in the mansion. The kids have fun on their adventures. Mrs. Beakley homeschools them, so no more school fundraisers,” a wry grin passed, “and Webby is probably the best thing to ever happen to them.”

“It sounds wonderful, Donald.”

“It is.”

“And you?” He asked softly, “Do you join them on their adventures?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not. I can’t stay there and do nothing.” He groaned. He knew that look. “I have responsibilities, and the last thing I want is to work for Scrooge again.” He trembled visibly. Adventures were one thing; they thrilled, endangered, and satisfied him. An adventure under Scrooge’s employment was an entirely separate experience. Donald didn’t intend to return to that.

“Hm. I think you need to get out more, my friend.” At Donald’s dubious expression, he eased into his explanation, without hesitation, “You are Donald Duck. You are a sailor, a former magician, an adventurer, a son, a nephew, an uncle, their father. I too am a parent. I try to be the best father I can be. I try to make them know they are loved and a priority, but what we are not warned of is the danger of parenthood. It is a lesson all parents must learn, and nothing can prepare us for it.”

“What is it?”

Jack’s stare held him. He debated what to tell him. Would he listen when he heard it? Would he care? What choices were available once his words reached his heart?

Donald debated whether he should listen, if what his friend was preparing to tell him was worth the pain. Donald nodded, accepting whatever truth Jack wanted to share, and Jack smiled gratefully, some of the tension in his bones weakening.

“We are parents. We love our children. We bathe them, clothe them, feed them. It is our job as protectors and guides to ensure they grow into capable adults, but yet…,” the moon shadowed his bone white face, “it is easy to lose yourself in your children. You become them, or you try to. This is not your intention, but an unfortunate consequence. You lose your hobbies. You lose your connections. You lose _you_ , and when they are grown, out in the world living the lives you may have wanted to live, what do you do? Grow angry? Shrivel away in resentful bitterness? My father did not. He was a loose handed parent, and did the best he could...carrying the expectation I would someday succeed him.”

“You haven’t.” Donald said, “You’re the Pumpkin King. He’s Halloween.”

“Indeed. He is.” Jack rolled his empty sockets, “And forever Halloween he will be until he is no more, which may or may not happen any time soon. He appears to you in the shape of a child, as he does with most, but the ages are not lost to me. I feel them. He is growing older, and he has accepted it is not my place to succeed him. I am the Pumpkin King. I enforce the rules and practices in my way, but I am not Halloween.”

“So what are you hitting at?” Aggravated with his friend's kindly made point, Donald focused on the withered grass instead. He didn’t want to accept, not then, not now, that he’d gradually devolved into what Jack described. “I had to make a decision, Jack. I had to do what was best for them. I couldn’t just - not, I’m not Scrooge. He had a child of his own, and we all know what happened.”

Jack didn’t disagree. “You and Della are just as much his children as his own, and can you tell me the fault solely lies on Scrooge for what their fates came to be?” He crossed one leg over the other, and crossed his fingers on its needled point, “Their decisions were their own, and their burden to live with.” He nodded sagely, feeling the waves of indignant anger begin to roll off him, “As do you, do not misunderstand me, but you cannot sway from knowing when the power of choices others have made begin to control us, the results are catastrophic.” He brought his finger to his lips, “Yes, I know. Della gave you little choice, and she gave you all the choices. Please, remember, you have a life, Donald, and unfortunately for us, it is just the one.”

He was quiet. He listened to howls chasing after wind. He watched the yellow moon grin at him. He felt his friend’s cold warmth at his side, never judging, relentless. He remembered dreams and days; the desire to chase the days and their dreams lingered in butterfly shapes. He had wanted to join her. Join them. His intentions weren’t to keep them chained to the earth below. He didn’t want to stifle them, not at the time, and maybe a small part of him wants to, just to keep them safe.

“They deserved more than stars.” He hated this. This quietness. This painful tremble in his voice. Feeble, quiet, hushed under cold winds and zero gravity, “They deserved a mom who’d stay for more than a week or two. They didn’t need to go on space adventures, not now, not right then. If she’d given us a little more time,” his voice cracked. He put a fist under his beak. He tried to steady his breathing, but the pain in his lungs strengthened.

“I know, Donald.” Jack pulled him in an embrace, “We all want more time. More, more, and so much more. We make do with what we are given. Do not waste it waiting in the shadows of others.” His cold embrace was more than what Donald anticipated. He bit at his fingers, haggled on his back. A welcoming cold stormed in him; within its center was a light. He felt this light, small and demure and wickedly bright, and steadily, this light grew. This light - Jack’s light haunted all who set their gazes on it; no one discussed the liberation offered when one fell to the glow’s spell.

Water trembled behind his eyelids. His fingers buried into Jack’s suit durable cloth, and like a weeping child, he was rocked back and forth. His cries were gentle, quiet. He hadn’t cried in a long time. In the months of his sister’s disappearance there was much to do, much to plan. Crying wasn’t an option then. It didn’t feel to be an option now.

Jack gently reminded him the option hadn't abandoned him. An offering was what this moment was. Glowing brightly in his dark soul, like the candle in the core of an empty jack o' lantern, his offering reached for Donald, ready to engulf him in its brightness. He accepted the pumpkin's gift. Stumbling forward, he reached for its embrace. Colder than autumn’s gale did Jack’s fingers caress his head. He lulled him to muffled quietness beneath the waning moon, and sung a ghastly lullaby. What this lullaby meant, Donald didn’t know. The sound of his voice was a choir of demons, beautiful and morbid, and soothed him to rest.

This demon of light was a master of fright. Donald praised him. Not through words. His speech was useless; sentences slurred and strained to remain coherent. He murmured his thanks, referring to an epitaph he found beneath the destruction of an ancient civilization; this epitaph was forgotten in time, relying on oral tradition to keep it alive.

“I know, Donald.” He crooned, “This is our Halloween, and be wary, my gentle friend, for she comes angrily, the moon’s queen.”

Grasping none of its complexities, Donald nodded silently. Soon, he knew no more.

* * *

“Uncle Donald.”

_"Donald, m’boy.”_

“Uncle Donald.”

_"Donny.”_

“Uncle Donald.”

_"My Donald.”_

“Uncle Donald!”

His pulse throbbed in his throat. Awakening with a start, he lurched forward in bed. His vision cleared, revealing scant knick knacks he kept on his shelves. His name echoed, whispered softly, as if the speaker was suddenly aware wherever he was it wasn’t immediately there on his bed.

A grinning yellow moon chuckled at him. Skeletal bones fell on his back. He touched hardened black tree bark, as dark as ash, and grasped the skeletal hand, never fearing its seasonal chipped fingertips. Autumn had arrived full force; winter waited in its shadows. He didn’t question the hand leading him to the tree; he didn’t pester its body with frights and tearful requests. His kindly hand led him through the thicket, and like an obedient, dream struck child, Donald followed.

Time was an abstract sensation in his bed. He heard his name repeated several times, concerning rising louder each time. He heard the voice at his upper right, and this was where his attention searched. He was pushed away from the thicket, releasing his firm grip on the hand. He fell slowly, quietly, and he breathed.

“Huey.” An aching sigh persisted in his question, “What’s wrong?”

He wasn’t wearing his hat. Donald noticed.

“Dewey is trapped in the staircase banister again.”

“How?”

“We don’t know. He heard something outside our room. He went to check, and we heard a scream.” He crossed his arms, “We tried to pull him out, only got worse, and we don’t know where the butter is.” He didn’t ask what other methods were used to free their brother. This must be troubling him, Donald threw his legs over the bed edge. Applying what he’d learned to solve problems was Huey’s determination. He had to accept his inability to help his brother.

“I’ll get the butter.” Donald stretched, “And a butter knife. Scrooge won’t mind too much.”

* * *

Huey led the way, scurrying up stairs with a speed Donald had possessed when he was younger. Dewey’s head visible at a respectable distance. Shaking his head, he climbed the stairs holding a bottle of butter and a butter knife. Louie and Webby huddled around him; the latter offering comforting words.

“You can tell me what happened as I work.” He kneeled beside him and started to spread butter around his head, “Don’t move until I tell you too.”

“Yes, Uncle Donald.” Dewey said, giggling softly as butter began to melt into his feathers.

“So…”

“Oh. Right.” He thought, “I was going downstairs to see what was for breakfast when I saw this box.”

“A box?”

“Yeah, box. Right in the middle of the hallway.” He waved his hands, and Donald reminded him he needed to remain still, “So, like any normal person I opened it.”

“Opened it?” Huey crossed his arms, “You found a random box, one you’ve never seen, and decided to open it?”

Dewey giggled when Donald’s hands fell on top of his head and curved gently underneath his beak, resting in the center where his Adam apple was certain to appear during puberty. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He winced. Donald started to pull gently, easing his head between buttered sides. “And it was mysteriously wrapped.”

“You opened the mysteriously wrapped box left in front of your bedroom door?” Louie asked, “Sounds reasonable.”

“That’s what I was saying!”

“Take it easy,” said Donald, straining to loosen his head. It did, slowly, aching slow for both sides. The butter had done its work; inch by inch did his head pull through, though Donald had to dig his fingers somewhat into Dewey’s sensitive scalp to keep grip.

“And a dismembered hand slunk out.” He shrugged, “Which isn’t weird, Uncle Scrooge has one in the garage.”

“You mean the Wing of Secrets.” Webby corrected.

“The garage.” Louie emphasized flatly, “So, a zombie hand chased you, and that’s new for us?”

“It wasn’t until I saw a kid.” His head inched free in the passing minute, and fell backwards on his bottom. “I thought ‘Cool, a ghost!’ but I don’t think he was a ghost.”

“You saw a kid?” Donald asked, glancing down the stairs, “What did the kid look like?”

Dewey shrugged. “He was wearing orange pajamas and wore a burlap sack on his head.” He tapped is beak speculatively, visualizing the unnervingly childlike creature who had greeted him that morning, “He waved at me, ran downstairs, and disappeared down the hall. I looked out the window and…,” he paused, blinking towards Donald, “I saw him head towards the house boat.”

“And you didn’t chase him?” Huey asked.

“The hand jumped on my face.” Dewey explained, offense sounding in his tone, “And by time I threw it off - it’s resting on my bed now,” they turned to stare where the aforementioned appendage snored silently on a blue colored comforter, “the kid was gone.”

“I didn’t see anyone in my boat.” Donald stared at Huey, “All I remember is Huey waking me up.”

“And I certainly didn’t see a pajama clad, burlap sack wearing kid in the house boat.”

“So, where’d he go?”

They ran. Well. Being faster and taller, Donald sprinted ahead. Four children scrambled after him with Webby leading. They made a turn in the kitchen, through the dining room where he skidded to a stop. Webby bumped into his tail feathers. Huey bumped into hers. Dewey, butter clinging to his hair, bumped into him. Louie made his entrance casually; unaware of the three pair of stares lingering on him.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why’s Uncle Donald standing there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should we find out?”

“I don't know.” Huey gritted his teeth worriedly. His morning wasn’t going at all like he planned. He turned to Uncle Donald, who had began to move towards the dining table, stare fixated on something.

“Uncle Donald?” They steadied on his stare, tracing his projected  trajectory, and gasped.

“A present.” Dewey gasped. He slid between Donald’s legs, ignoring his surprised and aggravated gasp. Clamoring on the table, failing to notice the fingerprints he left in his hurry, he spotted the beautifully wrapped box on the center of the table.

“Wait.” Donald persisted, grabbing his wrist at the perfect moment. “You just said a gift attacked you. You want to go for another round?” He glared tiredly at the child, who had enough to sense to appear abash, though they knew better abashment wasn’t a lengthy visitor for Dewey. Donald groaned. “Is it the same box?”

What difference was there to tell? The first box had been the normal size of an average Christmas present; dressed in pinstripe wrapping paper, its glittered corners beckoned him forward. Its silver bow was delicately wrapped at the very top; seeming harmless, the ivory canines sewn in were nearly invisible. He remembered none of this, not at the time, not in the moment of reaching for the second present. His excitement - static-y with a new adventure, clouded his memory. “I don’t know,” he answered. His frown deepened when Donald set him aside in a nearby chair, scowl firmly planted on his face.

“You don’t get to open it then.”

“Look.” Huey pointed beside them, “There’s a note in the front.”

Donald sighed. All of a sudden it felt his morning energy had abandoned him; he knew he had gotten at least seven hours of sleep, and the residual scent of his body wash lingered in his feathers. Glaring at the box - present, he mentally corrected, he suspected some sort of retaliation would be sent to their home if he chose to leave things as they were. He plucked the note and read his name in neat, cursive script.

“What impeccable script.” Huey praised.

“Hmph.” Donald didn’t know much about calligraphy. What he did know, or recognize, was the loopy handwriting on the note.

" _It is the true the sun and moon remain apart, but does this mean you must lose your heart? Remember who you were, who you are on the night of Samhain, and break away from your mournful chain.”  
_**_-Love, Jack, Sally, & Sam_**

“Who’s Jack and Sally?”

“Who’s Sam?”

“Why did they leave you a staff?”

Four heads spun to the question. Every muscle, every pinched fiber tethering Donald to Earth trembled in mortified stiffness. He mistook his silence for truth, rather than dumb speechlessness, and a thick swallow threatened to slit his throat from the inside out. Webby had grown bored, as she was prone to do occasionally. He didn’t blame her for that; she was a child, though an exceptionally gifted one. Their attention on the note, Webby crawled on the floor to the opposite side of the table, and she reached for the box, just a little taller than the boys, and saw what was inside.

“A staff,” Huey was the first to move. He grabbed the end of the box and pulled it over. An amazed gasp trembled in the air, “It is a staff. A magic one at that.” He moved quickly and gripped the staff in a firm grip, raising it above his head. Under direct light, cobalt blue vibrated around them.

Donald paled. “You should put it down.” He sputtered softly, reaching for the lower end of the staff; as his fingers grazed aged redwood, Dewey swooped in. Snatching the staff from Huey, he twirled it in circles, wonder flooding his face.

“It has a hat!” He exclaimed. He swirled the staff’s upper end in vivid circles. “It’s so cool.”

“It’s adorable.” Huey said. Glancing at his palm, a million thoughts took root in his ever active brain. He scrutinized and processed possibilities, simultaneously reeling from unshakeable truths just as he tried to flee from their hold. He squinted at faint lines skirting away on skin lying quietly beneath his feathers, like an elaborate quilt stitched by an elderly hand. Twists and turns he saw with his mind’s eye, and he pulled back.

Donald scowled. These kids were going to be the death of them. “Give me that!” He snared it one fell swoop, nearly knocking Dewey of balance. He glared at the boy, then at the other three, and seeing their confused expressions, sighed in defeat.

“It’s junk.”

“Doesn’t feel like junk.”

“It feels like cotton candy, rainstorms, and ultimate power.” Dewey gasped, eyes wide as saucers, “Uncle Donald, does Scrooge know about this?”

“No.” He added smoothly, “And he doesn’t need to.”

“Are you serious?” Louie coughed into his hand, “After everything -,”

“I know.” He said quietly, glaring at the magical staff he thought he’d lost over a decade ago. “I’ll tell you, first, then we’ll ease him into it. In time. You know how feels about magic.” For a moment, just briefly, he was lost in the past. Far deeper than Della and Scrooge knew, or would ever know, and he and his friends were crammed in their gummy ship, ready to explore the next world.

He had seen the stars. Yes. He'd seen the stars, cradled them, and released them back to their home. He'd seen stars and done so much more.

“Uncle Donald?”

Caught on a snag, he blinked back into the present. “Yes?” This wasn’t the time. Not now. Their wounds were still fresh; their loss left a numbing pain in their hearts. He wasn’t going to burden them with his story. He swallowed. His promise began to tremble under their inquisitive stares; reading him, testing him, silently pleading, and humbly accepting his silence. He clutched the staff in his grip close to his chest.

“I’ll...we’ll compromise, okay?” He smiled at their disbelieving surprise. “I mean you’re old enough to know, and I shouldn’t keep things from you.” An uncomfortable pause for him to collect himself, “It doesn’t hurt. You know? It won’t hurt, but we can’t tell Scrooge, not yet. He doesn’t know about this.”

“And Mom?” Louie asked, “Did she know?”

Donald shook his head. “No, no, she didn’t.” He stared at the staff, “Your mom was the one person who knew practically everything about me, except for this, and I liked it that way. She knew who I was.” He glared. “I mean who I am. Who I still am.” He mumbled under his breath, cursing someone named Jack, “And I want to show you some of it. Just a little. Don’t go too crazy.”

“So, when?” Huey sat on the chair, fingers folded between his legs. His innocent look was painful to hold. “Before trick or treating or -,”

“After. Before bed.”

He started to walk in the opposite direction, back to the houseboat. He was tired. He needed sleep. There was much planning to do. Which neighborhoods to visit, which candies to pick out of their bags, and how much they’d get to eat in one night. Their questions hounded at his heels; picking, scratching, hungry for answers promised at a later time.

“What have you haven’t done?” Louie scrutinized. It was a skill he had unknowingly crafted over the years; he thought he was adept, or at least better than most people. Uncle Donald was one of the easiest people he’d ever read, one of the first in fact.

He looked back at them. His uncle with a sailor’s tongue and a carolina reaper temper. Louie knew his uncle. He knew him. What he saw was unfamiliar, something he didn’t know; someone he wasn’t sure he was ready to meet. Donald turned around, expression forgivably stern, “There are a lot of things I’ve done you won’t be doing.” He chuckled, sweeping their uneasiness under a laugh, “Gonna go back to my boat. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

The boys opened their mouths to stop him, but silence tagged their tongues. They knew, intuitively, this was a story they’d wait to hear.

“At least he left us the box.” Webby said. From her position, she noticed a gentle twinkle inside. It was a tiny thing, easily missed. She lowered her head and let out a gasp, “Wait, there’s more stuff in here!”

“Really?”

“Is there gold or other things of monetary value?”

“Not the time, Louie.” Huey observed, “We can’t let Uncle Scrooge find this.” He was interested, more than interested, at what Webby had seen. She closed the box, moving away from the table, and they went in the opposite direction.

They’d let him muse. For now. They’d let him reminiscence.

* * *

Donald sat on his bed, unable to lie down, refusing to sleep. He stared at the staff on his dresser, and saw jellyfish tendrils swarm around it. Vivid, fluorescent blues came to life, emitting warm glow he felt to his bones.

Summer skies colored his eyes; a vivid, seafoam blue. He smile drew envy in the sun. His energy! Energy burned harsher than a volcano; his resilience was admirable, if not occasionally foolish. _But his hair_...Donald smiled fondly...nothing could be done about it. He wondered what he was doing right now; what life he lived, what wonders he’d seen.

_“You never forget your true buddies.”_

"No, I didn't." Regret fell on his shoulders. "Sorry, kid."

**Author's Note:**

> This was planned to be much shorter. The first thing I knew I wanted to include was the spirit of Halloween being Jack's father. That was where the pumpkin's gift originated. Sam is a reference to a horror anthology I enjoyed. "Trick r' Treat." Watch it if you like.
> 
> I couldn't not mention Sora. He's the main character of the crossover that brought Jack and Donald together in the first place.


End file.
